37. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Effie didn’t waste any time after the ball searching for a gallery space for Aunt Beatrice. It was a nice distraction from her self-pity and the boxes that piled up in Hope’s bedroom.
Effie’s inquiries around town had led her to the doors of the Portsmouth Historical Society.
They had a few rental spaces within their two buildings that would do nicely for a watercolor show complete with light appetizers, drinks, and mingling.
Effie had scoped out the spaces ahead of time and invited Aunt Beatrice out to approve the one she liked best.
They walked along the second-story gallery in the federal-style building on Middle Street.
A white wooden railing marked out the open center of the floor, looking down on the well-kept interior.
Paneled walls made great frames for art pieces that the event coordinator assured them could be swapped out for Beatrice’s paintings.
“What do you think?” Effie asked.
“It’s perfect.” Beatrice beamed, patting Effie’s arm where she held it for support during their turn about the space.
“We have an opening two weeks from today,” the coordinator exclaimed from behind her clipboard. “Since you’re doing appetizers and cocktails I should be able to pull it together quickly for you.”
“Perfect.” Effie bubbled with excitement at making these plans for her dear great-aunt. “But we will require a signature cocktail for the lady of the hour. Something with gin and lavender.”
“Oh, Effie. Don’t fuss.”
“Fuss I must. You’re too important to let this be glossed over. We aren’t just renting a space. We’re celebrating your years of beautiful artwork.” Effie turned to the event coordinator. “Do you have a weekly newsletter we could announce the show in?”
“Of course, but we do charge for advertisements.”
“Whatever it is, I’ll pay it,” Effie said with such confidence she wondered why everything in her life wasn’t so easy to decide.
“I’ll go draw up your contract and make a note about the cocktail. Feel free to peruse and plan,” she said gesturing to the space.
Effie led a quiet Aunt Beatrice in another turn about the room, noting which walls would be best for a display of Issa portraits and how they might lay out the evolution of the Thatcher women along the four walls that made up the expansive circle of the balcony-like room.
“What’s on your mind?” Effie finally asked.
A pensive beat before Beatrice replied, “You don’t have to go through so much trouble. I only wanted them displayed for a night. I didn’t need a show .”
“I know you didn’t need it, but it feels right, don’t you think?”
“It feels like something , and it’s been a good long while since I’ve had something to look forward to. For that, I will be forever grateful. ”
Effie paused before an oil painting of a bowl of fruit.
She had never understood still life paintings, finding them to be more evidence of skill or practice in color theory than actual artwork.
But this one, with its blue lace tablecloth and ceramic bowl filled with berries and stone fruits, had her wondering if she’d judged the style too harshly.
There was a sweetness to the brush strokes, a calm in the beam of light through the blurred window in the background.
It reminded her of their kitchen, their own bowl of fruit that rested in the center of the breakfast table. It became an emblem of life lived around the objects and a sentience radiated from the blue lace, the worn wood, the fruit that would never rot or be eaten.
“Aunt Bea?”
“Yes, Effie dear?”
“Does it ever get easier to let yourself be happy?”
A sigh emanated from the sturdy, wrinkled frame of the woman beside her. “I think it’s the hardest thing in the world to let yourself be happy.”
“Why?”
“Because then we have to admit that we were the only thing keeping us from it all along.”
Effie nodded, eyes drifting to the bowl of fruit. At first glance, it was pristine, almost too good to be true. Until Effie noticed the bruise on one of the peaches, the chip in the bowl on its lip, and the stain on the napkin that was draped beside it.
It was messy and blemished on close inspection, but when she took in the whole picture it was absolutely perfect.
Hope forgot how annoying moving was. Not that her single room at Thatcher house had enough space for too many belongings, but combing through bookshelves and cabinets in their shared spaces for her favorite novels, photo albums, and boxes of memorabilia from high school and college had been a monumental task.
Effie had been right, she had never moved away without some thought that she’d eventually wind up back within the walls of 53 Austin Street. It was bittersweet to box her yearbooks and college sweatshirts to carry on to her forever home.
As for the crib and changing table Brayden had set up in her room, they’d been disassembled and brought to the attic for storage.
In case someone else needs them soon Grams had said.
Hope was on the cusp of donating them but couldn’t argue that they were in better shape than Louisa’s crib that had been handed down through the generations.
It would be retired as soon as Hazel was old enough for a big girl bed.
Time moved too fast.
Hazel already talked and walked and would soon be three. Hope wondered who would be next to need the crib or if it would gather dust in the attic for years to come.
Brayden interrupted her thoughts with a rap on her open window. “You ready?”
“I thought you used the front door now?”
He ducked into the room from his perch on the roof. “One last climb, for old time’s sake.” Brayden came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, kissing the side of her forehead. Hope sighed, a pang of sadness at the emptiness of the room around her.
The twin bed remained, stripped of the purple duvet.
The walls were bare, dark squares left behind where Hope’s photos and framed book covers had hung on her wall.
The small closet was empty, and the space felt enormous without her large armoire.
Hope assumed someone else would take over the room eventually.
Maybe Hazel, if the upstairs great room with its private bath stopped serving the little tot and her mother.
Brayden must have sensed the sadness in her heart because he whispered in her ear. “We’re a few blocks away. You can come home anytime.”
“Home is with you now,” Hope replied but it still felt odd to strip her house here, her family, of that title.
“It’s wherever you want it to be, Hope. I saw a tea towel at the market yesterday that said home is where your mom is. Other people say it’s where your heart lives. I say it’s where you’re always welcome to be yourself, and that can be applied to more than one place.”
“Or person,” Hope said, spinning in Brayden’s arms to face him. She leaned into him for a kiss, her lips lingering for a long moment.
He mumbled against the bow of her mouth, “The movers are going to beat us there.”
“Will you go ahead?” Hope asked. “I want to walk with Effie.”
Brayden kissed her forehead. “I’ll see you over there.” He made for the window and Hope couldn’t help but smile. He saluted her before scaling down the porch banister. Hope shut the window behind him and locked it tight.
Hope found Effie in her room, an embroidery hoop in hand.
“I have one type of fern finished already for the baby’s room.
Halfway done with this one.” Effie turned the oversized hoop to face Hope, an olive-green thread danced along the linen fabric in the curves of woodland greenery. “Thank you,” she said.
The quiet pause triggered Effie to ask, “Time to go?”
“For now,” Hope mustered. Effie rose from her seat by the window where she preferred to work in the sunlight and walked to Hope’s side.
“For good,” she countered but her words weren’t angry. “Yes, you’ll come by often, but you’re moving into your new life, and it’s okay.”
She looped her arm through Hope’s and led her across the hall, down the stairs, and out the door into the humid summer heat.
Effie wasn’t telling her that she was shutting them out completely, but that she had to close the door on her chapter at 53 Austin.
It was okay to let it live in the past because she needed to give herself fully to her new life with Brayden, her new house. Her whole bright future.
They walked in silence for a bit, the sun threatening to burn Hope’s delicate cheeks when Effie finally said, “We’ll have to institute Saturday morning breakfasts at the house or something. Easy enough since you can walk over.”
“I like the sound of that,” Hope uttered, the anxiety about moving out for good rounding out into the picture Effie painted. It was just as she’d told Effie on the patio, things were fuller and better. The move was growth, not an ending. It felt much better to view it that way.
They reached the white fence, and the new flowers Hope picked sat in their pots ready to be planted where she’d laid them out. She looked to Effie who took in the large house before them, the fairy tale come true. Her face turned solemn, but it wasn’t the house she looked at.
It was the motorcycle parked on the street by the driveway.
“I told Brayden you were coming today,” Hope said a bit angry that he’d ask Theo to help without consulting her first.
“It’s fine,” Effie croaked, but the tension in her jaw said otherwise.
“We are supposed to get some heavy pieces delivered today . . .” Hope mused, certain that Brayden was in search of some extra brawn since she was not in the mood or condition to heft furniture around.
“I promise, it’s fine.” But her tone had sharpened.